


Lady Lulu, Lucky Mother

by canispeaktomarge



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Atom Heart Mother, Gen, Stewpid Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canispeaktomarge/pseuds/canispeaktomarge
Summary: Pink Floyd participate in an alternate photoshoot for Atom Heart Mother. Roger finds himself particularly acquainted with David's lovely Lulubelle.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Lady Lulu, Lucky Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello. First piece up on AO3. I wrote this some time ago amid a writer's block. Hope y'all enjoy the semi-shitshow. Hi-ho Silver, awayyyyy!

“Guys, this is Lulubelle.”

A doting smile unravelled David’s pride when he introduced the cow to his bandmates.

“How do ya do, miss?” Nick flashed his pearls and tipped his hat.

Wright extended a polite, sham of a handshake for the mottled thing and Roger chortled, his arse nestled against hardwood fencing like an egg.

David kneed Waters in the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to say ‘hello’?”

“What?” Roger chaffed. “Does the cow speak English? Parla inglese?”

David regarded the Sun upstairs with budding amusement.

“Har har. Whenever someone ignores me ol’ gal they often cop a ton of bad luck; careful there, Rog.”

Roger snorted; his ringed fingers threw shadows upon his hot head. “You’re full of such shit, David.”

From the shade of a tungsten barn emerged Pink Floyd’s photographer for the day. The man approached the group but digressed to Lulu without greeting. Roger frowned; their manager had hired a flake.

The young man made his first pitch. “Can we pet her?”

“Go for it.” David swam his hand about the cow’s wired coat. “She likes these areas.”

Waters rose from his post, exhaling an unimpressed, “Yeeuup,” hands securing his hips. “Reckon we should get started.”

Rick replaced his urge to retort with a question.  
  


“What’s the rush?”

“No rush; work is work.”

Which is exactly what they did. What seemed an hour had passed awfully beneath the scathing Sun. The young photographer had snapped at least fifty shots, most inclusive of Lulu and others without. By now, the twinkle in her eyes had dimmed, impatience imminent.

“Could we take a break? I think she needs milking.” David wiped sweat beading from his eyelids.

“You finally scored, way to go Dave!” Nick chanted.

David shoved the man.

“Has anybody milked a cow before?”

Strands of hair blew about as heads hurtled negatives; only Rick’s bounced with a nod.

“Well, would anyone like to try? Rick, do you remember how?”

“Yeah, but I’m not in the milking mood.”

“Quite alright. Anyone else?”

“Yeah, what the hell.” Nick removed his hat and it slipped from his sodden locks; the movement caused saline to run down his neck and temples.

A pail was sorted beneath the cow and Nick commenced under David’s uttered guidance. A shutter resounded at the scene before the young photographer retreated back to the barn, Rick following suit. Roger crouched beside Nick, pupils still as wasps whilst sinking semi-mud below.

“Wanna have a go?” Nick inquired, deciding he’d finished within seconds of starting.

“Ah, I’m not sure; guess I’m not in the mood,” Waters copied.

David dusted the seat that Nick’s caboose had once treasured. “Oh, have a go.”

“No, I’m not milking anyone today.”

There was a swift silence that tapered off when Lulubelle startled with a moo.

“Quick Roger, she’s getting antsy.”

“Shut up,” he chuckled at David’s wit.

“No, really, she doesn’t enjoy being stopped for long periods of time; you need to go… Now! Let’s go!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he gave in to urgency. His fingertips located Lulu’s ribcage and made for the greeting he’d missed prior.

“Hey there, girl!”

The cow puffed hotly with a swipe of her tail. A voice of apprehension badgered David but he chose to brush it sideways, now charting directions. Student Roger sat a bit cramped on a lacquered, wooden chair.

“I see,” Roger responded to direction. “Mhm, yep, okay,” he continued. “Right, that feels weird… So, like this?”

His wristwatch slammed against his wrist after his palm jolted, a radical splash of milk assaulting him and swimming up his nose.

“Yes, actually,” David resolved.

Nick and the boys beneath the woodshed began to guffaw.

“Oh, piss off!”

Milk struck his face again, this time soaking his collarbone through his shirt. Roger’s milking know-how ascertained Lulu’s disinterest when she began to wander.

“Hey! Come back here; I’m not finished with you!” The man hurled his seat backward with an almighty kick, long legs striding after the hobbly animal.

“Good luck!” Rick cried with a smile; just desserts.

David itched his chin. “Ah! Y’know, maybe it’d be wise to just wa-”

“I’ll be right back, David!” Roger warbled, hand flailing without the hanky.

“Wait here…” David finished. He listened as Waters faded.

“Come here, Lulu; come on!”

It seemed that Lulubelle was reluctant to obey demands, ‘ _much like her father’_ Roger pondered as he tracked the staggering creature. She made haste, hurrying away.

“Oh, Christ,” he carped.

Tracking the cow led him to what appeared to be another paddock cloaked in bush. Waters observed the ecosystem under heavy skepticism. The pen was filled to the brim with cattle and Roger expected a UFO to land at any moment.

“I don’t think we’re meant to be here, Lulu.” Roger rose a riddled brow.

The lady gave him the cold-shoulder; what did he know? With a shrug she walked right in.

“Lulu! Jesus, girl.”

Roger entered the terrain as well, all at once losing her and himself betwixt alien cattle. Soft cows with sweet, chocolatey specs ogled the man as they tongued nostrils.

“ _Shit_.”

Roger worked careful footing about the enclosure, sidestepping undesirables that lay mercilessly about. He found himself in heavy pursuit for Lulu, the cow he’d distinguished having big, flapping eyelashes.

Roger flattened his palms upon each cow he passed, that was, until a ghastly nudge lay well into his spine; surely Lulu’s lashes weren’t _that_ long. Roger anguished the assumption of a pitchfork-bearing, irate farmer. Upon turning, he fell face-to-face with a mammoth-sized bull; it crowned Satan’s pointed headdress.

“Oh! H-hello there…”

Roger blinked thrice. The bull fired red bullets of air: one for ‘ready’, another ‘steady’, then ‘go.’

“Oh, fuck.”

Scrambling mud beneath his boots, Roger threw lunges for the gate as a newfound pair of wings carried him. He paid no mind to the “accidents” along the way. The bull tore through the crowd of cattle, hooves loaded with repetitive ammo.

Waters exited the lot, first leg of the race complete. He now placed thorough emphasis on his hamstrings, hoping to rouse any leftover scraps of rugby-player strength. Mouthfuls of gibberish and noteworthy profanity spouted his gob while he minced up the hillside. Atop the slope lay potential for human bowling pins.

Nick eyed the frenetic figures as they appeared and lowered a cup of water he’d been rationing.  
  
  


“What the hell? That’s not… Hang on.” He squinted.

“Looks like he found Lulubelle,” Rick helped. “She’s not running after him, though, is she? Surely not.”

“Oh. No,” David paled. “God no, that’s not Lulu. _That_ – is my next-door neighbour _Monsieur_ _Bertrand’s_ bull.”

Waters and ‘Monsieur Bertrand’s bull’ were now in dangerous proximity from the group, a ten-second countdown from catastrophe.

“David, what do I do?” Roger bellowed, mad hair flying off his head.

“Keep running!”

“Are you fucking insane?!” He howled.

_Perhaps I am,_ David considered, grappling at a camera. Rick stood rooted within soil, mouth ajar; Nick shook from laughter and hits of adrenaline - the scene was ludicrous. Fortunately for David, the photographer was off having a piss behind the barn.

“Okay, Rog!” David shouted.

“David-what-the-hell-are-you–?”

“One, two…”

Roger shrieked a longwinded “fuck!” and shot aside the incoming traffic. David snapped on three. With Waters out the way, the bull was now headed for David.

“Merde alors!” He cried. “Halte!”

The bull’s legs kicked abrupt, its efforts on instinct bombing. The being ground its muddy hooves into the Earth, drawing up clouds of dust and cloves of gravel. Rick and Nick were left coughing their lungs out; David kept stagnant. The photographer came waltzing about the shed into freshly tainted territory; he noticed Lulubelle’s replacement and the street of eyes on Gilmour.

“It-it-I… H-he knows French.” David tried for a smile.

Roger picked himself up in bright, blusterous fluster, patting a flurry of dust away from his arse.

“David,” he snarled filing long, brisk steps toward the soul.

“Give me that!” Roger snatched the camera out of his fraught hands. He opened the latch, exposing the film.

“Roger, no!” Rick clutched his head, vexing.

The cameraman leaned from the barn wall. “What the hell, man?”

“Shut up, all of you. What the hell is wrong with you, David? _No one_ can ever– _will_ _ever_ know of this; do you understand?”

He hurtled the roll of film to the ground.

“ _You_ ,” Roger whipped at the photographer. “Last roll of film– load it.”

The young man's forehead creased; he wanted to deplore the group for misusing his equipment. He carried the camera away to the barn, and upon return, reluctantly placed the piece into what he perceived as clunky, conceited hands.

Roger commenced a familiar, rhythmic stomp down the slope of the hill, slipping a little on grass but managing again toward the paddock. A stifled audience watched from afar.

“Where is she...?” Roger broadcast. “Where is this _hunk_ of– Oh, _hello_.”

There she was– Lulubelle– sampling garnished grass and projecting her rear end aloud, just for him.

“Keep still, traitor, or you’ll be turned to steak for your treason.”

Lulu craned her neck, expressionless though lightly bothered. Roger snapped a photograph.

“Hah!” He exclaimed, body heaving like a stick bug.

“Now let’s take a few mo-oaah!”

Lulubelle responded "moo", mistaking the man’s speech for contact as he fell on his derriere. To his dismay, Monsieur Bertrand’s bull was towered breathing might upon his shoulders.

“Lullubelle, your boyfriend’s here,” David gestured with insouciance.

The speckled lady exhibited deep appreciation, for every step toward her male counterpart returned a twinkle to her eye.

“What raucous claims, Roger– turning her into ‘steak’. Outrageous; what hell's the matter with you?” David seized the camera from his grasp now weakened by bewilderment.

“I’d never do that to you, now, would I Lulu? No, course not! Good girl.”

With that, he snapped a photo of the two lovely cattle on their date.


End file.
